Tony Dunbar - Tubby Dubonnet 02 - City of Beads

by Tony Dunbar

  “So what happened?” Adrian asked.

  “Is there something you haven’t told me about this thing?” Tubby demanded.

  “No, I don’t even remember getting arrested.”

  “This guy back there has a super hard-on for you. The best he’ll do is let you plead guilty and get three years’ probation.”

  “Plead guilty? I’d never get to see my kid again. That’s a terrible idea.”

  “I know but right now you’re in big trouble. They’ve set it for trial early next month. I can try to talk to the other guys who got busted with you to see if they will tell what really happened.”

  “Gosh. No telling what they’ll say. I don’t even know their names.”

  “I can find that out. Now listen, I need a retainer for this of two thousand dollars.”

  “Gosh, Mr. Tubby, I don’t have that much right now. My rent is due and everything.”

  “Adrian, I’m not going to lead you astray. During those times in your life when you’ve got serious legal troubles, I suggest you pay your lawyer before you pay your rent. You could try out another lawyer, and it wouldn’t hurt my feelings one bit. But you gotta expect to lay out some money when you get yourself in a fix like this. I’m giving you some good advice here.”

  Adrian hung his head down and thought it over. “I guess I’ve got only myself to blame,” he said. “I’ll talk to my dad about borrowing some more money.”

  “Whatever. But get in touch with me soon while we can still locate your partners in crime.”

  They left together. Tubby offered Adrian a lift downtown, but he said he would be better off walking to Canal Street and catching a Cemeteries bus back to his house. Tubby’s Corvair was in the other direction. It was unsafe at any speed and matched his mood exactly. He marched down the sidewalk feeling frustrated, angry, and tired.

  The praline lady was sitting where he had last seen her, on a folding lawn chair, on the sidewalk, across the street from the Community Correctional Center. She had on a straw bonnet, held down with a red-checkered scarf, and a light pink raincoat buttoned up despite the warmth of the day. She was as out of place, displayed against the white concrete walls of the prison, as a potted geranium would be on the beach.

  On her lap there was a cardboard box top on which were arranged nice round pecan pralines. Tubby spied her from the car and he detoured to see how she was doing.

  “They look good today,” he said. She jumped a little.

  “Dear me,” she peeped. “I must have fallen asleep.”

  “I’m mighty sorry to wake you up,” Tubby said, “but I was hungry.”

  “You just pick out whichever one you like.” She lifted the box top so he could see better. Each of the saucer-shaped confections was wrapped in its own little bag, tied with a red twist.

  “This one looks good,” Tubby said, selecting the biggest one he could find. He handed over a dollar bill. “You don’t remember me, do you?”

  “I remember you,” she said with a small sly smile. “You the one asked about my godson, Jerome.”

  “Yes. Jerome Rasheed Cook. Has he ever come out of there?” Tubby indicated the doorway to the prison complex.

  “No, he ain’t,” she said accusingly. And I been watching for him every day.”

  “You know, I asked the guard to give him my card the last time I was down here, but I never did hear from your godson.”

  “They probably never give it to him. He would have got in touch with you if they had let him. There’s something they don’t want you to know going on in there.”

  “Maybe.” Tubby unwrapped his candy and took a sweet bite. “It is strange. You know, they had him on the computer, but they couldn’t tell me what he was charged with when I was here last time. I don’t know what it means.”

  “Police arrested him for selling that crack. Say he was a witness. They wanted him to say who he got it from.”

  “He wouldn’t tell?”

  “He told me,” she said, a crafty look upon her weathered brown face.

  “What did he say?”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t repeat that.”

  “That’s probably smart. He should do the telling. But the question is, where is he? Haven’t you gotten a letter from him in all this time?”

  “No, not one single card,” she said emphatically, patting her hand on her knee.

  “Well, look. Something’s not right here. If you want me to look into this I will.” It might make him feel better about screwing up Adrian’s case.

  “I’d be mighty happy if you would.”

  “Well, you’ve got to hire me. I’ll take another praline as a retainer.”

  She squinted up at him, trying to decide if he was worth that much. “That’s all you want?” she asked.

  “For now,” Tubby said. “If it gets involved, we’ll have to talk some more.”

  “I don’t know about that,” she said, “but I’ll pay you one praline for today.”

  “That one there,” Tubby said.

  She handed it over.

  He walked across the street to the prison and, as he had done before, presented himself to the black-uniformed man behind the big counter.

  “I’m looking for Jerome Rasheed Cook,” he said. “I’m his lawyer.”

  And, as before, the guard fiddled with his keyboard and brought the prisoner’s name up on the screen.

  “I’m sorry” he said, “something’s wrong with the record. I don’t think he’s here.”

  “Where is he?”

  The deputy looked troubled.

  “It doesn’t say. We had him here in June, but it doesn’t show where he is now.”

  “What’s he charged with?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that either. There’s some problem here.”

  “How about a file, like a folder? Isn’t there some other record but what’s in that computer?”

  “Yes, but my supervisor would have to get that for you. Only he’s in training all week and won’t be here.”

  Tubby shook his head. What else could he do? He left and reported back to the praline lady.

  “That’s just what I was afraid of,” she said. “They done lost my boy.

  “I’ll see what I can do to find him,” Tubby promised. More than anything else, he was curious. “What is your name, ma’am?”

  “Pyrene,” she said. “Miss Pyrene,”

  “If I find something out about Jerome, I’ll let you know.”

  “Okay. I pray you do. God bless you.”

  “Thank you, ma’am. Bye-bye.” Tubby walked off, eating his retainer.

  CHAPTER 12

  Tubby drove downtown to his office building. He worked in the Place Palais on the forty-third floor. After navigating the spiral ramp of the vast parking garage and taking a series of elevators and making a couple of right turns he reached the door marked, in large but tasteful golden letters, DUBONNET & ASSOCIATES. It had once been TURNTIDE & DUBONNET, but Tubby’s former partner seemed to have been swallowed up by the earth after getting too deeply involved in some of his clients’ affairs.

  Now Tubby worked alone, assisted by his secretary, Cherrylynn. The “Associates” in the title was just there in case he ever decided to hire some young lawyer to help him.

  Tubby had only been to the office a couple of times in the week since he had returned from Florida. He was definitely resisting getting back into the swing of lawyering, and Cherrylynn had shown great dexterity in the art of getting continuances, postponing meetings, and generally handling his clients’ business. She was getting to be so good he was thinking of calling her a paralegal and billing her time by the hour.

  “Howdy, stranger,” she greeted him when he walked in. Cherrylynn was about five foot-two, 110 pounds, had brownish-blond hair, and she could look like a knockout when she dolled up. She cooked roasted peppers and shrimp, and had freckles that moved around when she grinned. When she saw Tubby the freckles moved.

  “How’s business?” he asked he
r, glumly grabbing a handful of accumulated phone messages.

  “We’ve got more bills than we’ve got income, Mr. Dubonnet. It looks to me like it’s time for you to get back to work.”

  “Thoughtful of you to share that with me, Cherrylynn. You may not realize it but I’m always working. Even when I sleep I’m dreaming about my clients.”

  “Some of them may be thinking you were a dream,” she chirped.

  “Okay. Let me get situated for a few minutes. Then bring me some files to look at. We’ll go over the list and see what needs doing.”

  “I’ve already got everything organized for your review.”

  “I knew you would,” he sighed. “Give me ten minutes or whenever you see I’m off the phone, then come on back and we’ll spread stuff out.”

  “Right, boss.”

  His office was just behind the reception area. It was large and had a panoramic view of the city to the east—the French Quarter, the river’s hairpin turn, and, in the far distance, the battlefield where Andy Jackson beat the bloody British in a town called New Orleans. One of Tubby’s main relaxations was staring at the view he leased. Most striking to him were the weather patterns that developed before his eyes, mostly in the summer months. Frightening, massive, dark clouds would rise up over the Industrial Canal, like smoke billowing from a warehouse fire, except that these clouds dumped rain like Niagara Falls. With sun streaming in through his window, Tubby could watch these billowing thunderheads bear down upon Canal Street, scattering pedestrians like chickens, and then blot out all daylight and smash with a great rush of water into his building. His window glass would quiver and resonate like a drum. It was quite awesome and entertaining.

  Tubby became aware that he was staring unproductively out his window, still holding his batch of phone messages. He was back at work. Rats.

  He sat in his familiar leather chair behind the handsome cypress desk that had come from the office of a now abandoned cotton compress in Avoyelles Parish. Idly he checked who had called him.

  Jynx Margolis, whose divorce case would never end. Dr. Feingold, an old friend. Several calls from lawyers. A “Mr. Bubba Pender,” whom he had never heard of, had called about a “potato patent,” and Twink Beekman from Save Our River. On that slip Cherrylynn had written: “Wants you to meet him uptown to discuss lawsuit and suggests London Coffee House.” That took kahunas. Ask your free lawyer to make house calls. Cherrylynn buzzed to ask if he was ready, and he told her to come on in.

  It took her about half an hour to bring him up to date on the status of everything currently going on in his office. She had also made him a list of things to do, organized by the priorities she had assigned to them.

  “I want you to open a new file,” he told her as they were finishing up. “Casino Mall Grande, General Advice. Bills go to Jake LaBreau at the casino.”

  “What rate?” she asked.

  “My top rate,” he said with a broad satisfied smile. Even if he was bored with the law, he loved his top rate.

  “This is your first casino client, boss.”

  “So?” He had the feeling she was going to try to ruin the moment.

  “So nothing, I guess. I mean I just don’t suppose I approve of it.”

  “Really? I didn’t know you had an opinion about gambling, for or against.” He was truly surprised. Cherrylynn had a rather checkered past. A wild youth, so to speak, with at least one loser ex-husband who came sniffing around every so often. There were lots of details Tubby didn’t know, and didn’t want to know. In the three years she had worked for him Cherrylynn had grown dramatically from sheepish, girlish receptionist to belligerent, irreplaceable, total manager. Still, for all her efficiency, she would mysteriously fail to report to work once or twice a year, and when she did show up after a day or two she was never on full power. Other than throwing a few sarcastic barbs her way, he didn’t give her a hard time, even though these unexpected absences sometimes were quite inconvenient. Mental Health days, he figured. Sometimes he took those himself.

  “Personally I think it’s a massive rip-off, and all run by the Mafia,” she said.

  “Nobody forces people to go inside,” Tubby said. “And in my opinion, heavier hitters than the mob are running casino gambling. It’s a legitimate business now, and there aren’t any tougher s.o.b.’s than legitimate businessmen. Anyway, all I’m doing is regular lawyer work — contract review, things like that.”

  “Well, it’s not my place to say anything. I just have my opinion.”

  Tubby didn’t reply.

  “As long as I’ve started, I’ll say one more thing, Mr. Dubonnet.”

  “Go ahead,” Tubby said.

  “I hope you won’t hang out in that place too much. All that alcohol. It’s an unhealthy atmosphere.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.” He was touched.

  She gathered up her papers to go back to her desk.

  “It’s just that I worry about you, boss. Spending too much time around all that booze leads to nothing but trouble. I know that from experience.”

  “Yes, dear,” Tubby said with a smile, and Cherrylynn left. He didn’t dare tell her he was seriously considering buying Mike’s Bar.

  He could take care of one problem right away. Having a jailer say he could not locate Tubby’s client and that it would be a week before the supervisor would look into the matter had given Tubby serious heartburn.

  “Application for writ of habeas corpus,” he scratched on a yellow pad. It had certainly been a while since he had filed one of these, but he thought he remembered the words.

  TO THE HONORABLE Michael J. Shistrunk, Judge of the Criminal District Court of the Parish of Orleans, State of Louisiana: The petition of Jerome Rasheed Cook, applying for writ of habeas corpus, with respect represents:

  1. Jerome Rasheed Cook is presently in the custody of the Criminal Sheriff of Orleans Parish, Louisiana, and has been so detained for approximately six months,

  2. Jerome Rasheed Cook is being held in custody without an order of Court. He was taken into custody by the New Orleans Police Department on or about the date aforesaid and thereafter placed in the custody of the Criminal Sheriff.

  3. Petitioner was never charged with an offense by the State of Louisiana.

  4. Petitioner has never been indicted upon any charge by the State of Louisiana.

  5. No legal basis whatsoever has been shown for Petitioner’s detention in custody.

  6. The time limitations for instituting a prosecution against Petitioner have long passed.

  WHEREFORE, PETITIONER PRAYS THAT:

  Tubby paused. His church background, sketchy though it may have been, always urged him to rebel at praying to the State of Louisiana. But what could you do? Just a form, right? Petitioner prays, he continued, that:

  1. A WRIT OF HABEAS CORPUS ISSUE HEREIN TO THE CRIMINAL SHERIFF OF THE PARISH OF ORLEANS, STATE OF LOUISIANA, to produce in open court, at such time and on a date to be fixed by this Honorable Court, the Petitioner herein, the person who is unlawfully confined, and then and there a true and correct return make of the reason and cause of the detention of Petitioner.

  2. After due proceedings had, Petitioner be discharged and released from further detention and confinement, and all such orders issue which are necessary and proper in the premises and to which he may be entitled.

  Tubby Dubonnet,

  Attorney for Jerome Rasheed Cook

  He followed that up with an order for the judge to sign, and with that off his chest he felt immediately better.

  In fact, that was a good note on which to end the day. He gave his draft to Cherrylynn and asked her to call his courier, Joe Boggs, to file the writ the next morning. He got his coat and, while she was not looking, slipped out the door.

  CHAPTER 13

  It was not a loud noise, more a sort of a click, but it was out of place. Tania’s eyes snapped open. There it was again, a creak somewhere in the front room of her shotgun house. All of the lights were off. She had tur
ned in early, as she had done each night since she had bumped off Charlie Van Dyne. And every night she had slept like a baby. There was a thump against a piece of furniture. Someone was in her house.

  She jumped out of bed, trying to be silent but mostly intent on getting her nightrobe on because she had been sleeping without any clothes. She pulled the sash tight while creeping to the open bedroom doorway to listen. The nearest phone was in the kitchen, a few feet away down the hall, separated from the bedroom by a bathroom off to one side. She had known it was a mistake for a single woman in a big city not to have an extension near the bed, but she was so damn frugal. She had made one concession to city living, however, which was to keep a carving knife under her mattress.

  When she heard the sound of a footstep in the kitchen she knelt down quietly beside the bed and slid out the knife, holding it tightly in one hand. With the other clutching her robe, she slipped to the doorway again.

  There was another footstep.

  “Yaah!” she screamed, a crazy sound. “Who’s there?”

  Shapes rushed at her through the darkness.

  “Yaah!” she screamed hysterically. “Get out of here!”

  Hands stretched through the doorway, tugging at her robe. The face that closed in on hers was the man of her nightmares, Hambone eyes, stupid and mean, crooked runny nose. She swept her knife upward. He tried to block her arm, and the sharp blade sliced over his fingers.

  “Damn,” he yelped in pain, and stepped back against the other dark figure rushing in behind him.

  Her instinct was to throw the knife at them, cover her eyes with her hands, and run the other way. But there was no back way out. No escape but past these men.

  “Yaah! Yaah!” Terrible noises that she didn’t hear kept coming from her mouth as she marched into them, swinging and poking with her knife.

  The man in front, the one she knew as Hambone in her mind, took the force of her attack. He grunted in surprise and anger when she pushed the knife hard and mad somewhere into his belly region, her fist reaching him and feeling his warmth. Now he was hollering too and was no longer blocking the hallway. The other man had retreated and pulled Hambone with him while she advanced. They backed into the recess where her kitchen sink was, and for a moment the way out was clear.